


Double Sculls

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M, Romance, Sports, competitions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the night before the rowing finals and Merlin and Arthur have a heart to heart that may lead them to victory and other things...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Sculls

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go to the lovely schweet_heart for her kind and prompt betaing of this fic. You've been great!

The bed creaks, the pillow is punched, covers are tugged up. As they are fought with, they rustle and sough. Arthur tells himself he should keep his eyes closed, count sheep, and try to sleep. It's the most prudent course of action, after all. But the bed frame groans again and Arthur can't ignore it. “What is it?” he says into the pillow. 

“Nothing.” Merlin's voice drifts over muffled by the mounds of cushions his face is buried in. “You can go back to sleep.”

The tone alone would make Arthur sit up. It's level enough but there's a raucous note of sadness in it that sets Arthur on edge, alarms him subtly. Having heard it, there's no going back to sleep for him. Pushing the covers aside, Arthur sits up. Merlin is lying on his side, facing the wall, his knees nearly up to his chest. “Insomnia?” Arthur places both feet on the floor. The dorm they have been assigned is small so there's no great distance between his and Merlin's bed. “Is that it?”

“I can sleep fine,” Merlin says, to the wall more than to Arthur.

“Then why aren't you?” Arthur gives a look at the digital clock that sits on the table facing the beds. It's three in the morning. Time for any self-respecting person to be asleep. “Especially given that we have to compete tomorrow.” If this were anyone other than Merlin – his partner of so many years, the one teammate he's collected the most medals with, the one man to whose rhythms he's synched to deep down in his bones – he'd probably shut the man out, leave him to sit it out in the corridor. They tell him it's comfy enough, or at least so Gwaine said after he'd locked himself out of his room. Because this means everything to Arthur too. Too much is at stake. It's the turning point in his career and he cannot take it lightly. But this is Merlin. “You should be tired enough.”

“I am,” Merlin says, sitting up in bed like Arthur had, with his knees up and his back to the headboard. “All those press conferences take more of a toll than ten hours of training.”

“So why aren't you sleeping like the dead?” That Merlin isn't is concerning, to say the least. Arthur doesn't like it, not one little bit. Arthur can actually take a lot of things in stride: injuries, defeat, horrid weather affecting performances, but Merlin not being fine is something that knocks him down completely, hammers him flat. It's just wrong on so many levels. Hell, Merlin's the optimistic one, the one perpetually grinning at life, the one who, when they'd arrived in Rio, had poked his head out of the window and beamed at the rather uninspiring view they had from Athlete's Village. He'd said, “Look, Arthur, isn't it magnificent?” when all they could see was the back section of another concrete building. Him moping? That's mostly unheard of. “You should.”

“I'm just feeling a bit queasy,” Merlin says. “That's all.”

Arthur moves from his bed to Merlin's, sitting next to him and feeling his forehead with his palm. “You're ill, aren't you?” Merlin's not burning up, but he does feel decidedly warmer than he should be. “It's the water pollution, isn't it?” Arthur should've known. The warnings the other athletes had issued were not for nothing. “I can call a doctor.”

“I don't need a doctor,” Merlin says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I'm just worried.”

“Worried about what?” Arthur frowns. He doesn't want Merlin to be racked by doubts, to feel anything less than confident. It's not only because confidence is going to win them the games, but because he can't abide Merlin being less than perfectly all right. It's just important to him and maybe this need of his influences him too much, affects his actions out there on the water, but it's also the reason why they've got this far. They're winning because they're so finely tuned to one another. Not the other way around. “We're doing well. We didn't get first place in the semis, but we kept our powder dry, conserved our energies for tomorrow. I don't see why you should be nervous.”

“It's just that--” Merlin takes in a big breath and focuses huge eyes on him. “My mum's not well and she said she wanted to see me win. I have this...” His lips twist in a wry line. “...this notion, and I get that it's absurd, that if I get the gold for her, then she's going to be fine.”

Arthur understands this just fine. “Merlin, it's not absurd.” No more than any stray thought is when it comes to the well-being of a loved one. “I get bargaining with destiny. I get it too well.”

“Your mother,” Merlin says, leaning towards Arthur and covering his hand with his. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up. I was so thoughtless.” 

Merlin's touch stabs Arthur right in the heart. “It was such a long time ago, Merlin. Of course I can talk about it.” The more so if Merlin needs someone to be there for him, someone who's been through it all. It should be Arthur anyway. They're partners. They're a team. And that means being there for each other, lifting each other up. “I think I can face my loss like a man.”

“Yeah, I know. I have every faith in you,” Merlin says. “I just didn't want to remind you.” He matches gazes with Arthur and his becomes soulful and deep. “But I also would never want to wound you. It's just... I can't, Arthur. Whatever pains me--” His lungs fill. “Whatever's wrong with me, I can't make you unhappy. I can't be the cause. You see that, don't you?”

Arthur's speechless and wordless. A load of stones camps in his chest. It takes him the longest time to say anything, mostly because everything he does want to say happens to be wholly inappropriate for a day like this, the one before the finals. “It doesn't matter.” Arthur shakes his head and his lower lip juts out. “If you have a problem, you tell me.”

Merlin nods. “Right, right of course.” His shoulders hunch. “It would be unfair if I didn't.”

“Right you are.”

“Because we're at the Olympics and it's got consequences,” Merlin says. “I know that. I know that.”

Merlin pulls his covers up and toys with the hem. Though the backs of his hands are callused to hell and back from the sculls, his fingers are long, thin at the knuckles, like those of a poet, or an artist. The first time Arthur ever saw Merlin, back when they were fourteen and the best in their rowing club, he had been totally unconvinced of Merlin's ability to give his all on those selfsame sculls. In a fit of teenaged stupidity, he'd made that known to Merlin, he'd taunted him, jeered at him a fair bit. On a trial run along the Avon's waters, Merlin had proved him wrong – how wrong – and, looking back on it, Arthur is glad. 

If they've come this far, it's because they've each aligned themselves one to the other. Because they match. Because when they're in their boat, they can beat the wind. But that's not the only reason why. God, no. He supposes he should make that clear. “No, Merlin. That's not why.” Arthur swallows his pride together with the knot that tightens his throat. “I hope you know...” Arthur licks his lips. Why is this so hard? Why can't he tell Merlin what he means, why can't he share the words with him? Right, it's imprudent, a gamble, both with their place here at the Olympics and with everything else, after all. He really doesn't know how he would deal if Merlin took it badly. They can't trifle with their relationship now when everything needs to be smooth, on an even keel. “I hope you know that we're friends.” Arthur thinks his declaration over and feels it's lacking in fundamental ways. “I mean, I know when we were young I said that we were only on the same team, and that that didn't mean we should be mates, but I was a dumb kid back then.”

“Arthur, no.” Merlin shifts in bed and leans over to splay his palm on Arthur's shoulder, to squeeze. “I know that. I know we're friends.”

As much as he may want to, Arthur can't rein in the smile that splits his face in two. His heart lurches in his chest, powerfully beats out of sync. If he didn't know he was as healthy as a horse, he'd bloody worry. “So about tomorrow?”

Merlin's face falls and he tenses all over. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

“I promise you.” Arthur's ready to brave all odds, give it his all, and not just because that's what he's always wanted, being a gold medallist, but also for Merlin's mum, Merlin's happiness, which is worth a thousand medals. “I promise you, we're going to get on that podium and your mum's going to watch.”

“You think we can?” Merlin asks, and he's never sounded so doubtful in his whole career. “I mean the Dutch are really strong and so are the Russians. I don't know, I...”

“We're going to win this, Merlin.” Arthur flattens his hand on top of Merlin's, which is still resting on his shoulder. “We're going to make your mum proud.”

Merlin beams, and when he lies back down it's with a smile on his face.

Arthur fancies he hears Merlin thank him just before he falls asleep.

 

***** 

The weather's fine. The sun is a golden disc up in the sky. There are clouds but they are scattered, like fleece unspooling where the horizon line is. Even so the current conditions are not as perfect as they might have wished. The currents are strong, the waves whitecapped, and the wind hefty. Even at a standstill they're doing a lot of pitching; he can picture how it's going to be like once they get moving. They're going to have to watch out for all weather surprises. 

“It's bouncy,” Merlin tells him from behind him. “It could turn nasty.”

“I know.” Arthur grips his sculls tight. “We'll weather it.”

As they start, gusts of wind hit them face on and the water bounces them around. This getting thrown slows them, puts a dent into their attempts at speeding up. They're not the only ones reacting badly. Behind them the Serbian rowers get dumped out of their boats and the Italians fall so far behind they'll end up last. With such a choppy start they'll have to put their all in the final stretch themselves if they want to place. 

They have three crews ahead of them, the Dutch, the Russians and the Lithuanian duo. They keep them in their sights, check what they do, but they don't keep their focus on them. They row at a steady pace, trying to handle the water, to close the gap between themselves and the Lithuanians. They're strong and have a sure rhythm. Hopefully this will be enough to overtake their rivals.

As Arthur calls the shots, Merlin follows in his wake. They hit their stride, that perfect zone in which movement flows out of them with ease, at the same tempo, in the same pattern. They're in the wake of the Lithuanians when the waters push them back. At this point, they're five hundred meters short of the finishing line.

“Sweep, Arthur, sweep.”

Working those skulls, they overhaul the Lithuanians and the Russians. But at four hundred metres the Russian pair passes them again. If they finish as they are, they're going to get a bronze. Arthur could make do with that. He'd come to Rio with the gold in mind, but bronze is respectable enough, and it's not an end to his career. It's a steadfast middle. But he remembers the night before, Merlin's tone and Merlin's fears and he knows he can't give up. For Merlin. Muscles burning, heart in his throat, Arthur calls out, “Come on!”

Merlin must be giving his all too, moving in perfect unison with Arthur, because they're fending the waters at a fast pace, wind in their hair, waters lapping at the shell with gurgling sounds. It's a close pattern of catch, extraction, and release that propels them forward, putting pressure on the oars by pushing their seats toward the bow of the boat and extending their legs. Quickly they lift the blades out of the water, rotate the sculls so they lie parallel to it, and plunge them back in, the oar handles moving away from their chests. The blades clear the water and feather beautifully. When the cycle ends, they coordinate so as to cause the sculls to fall back into catch. And while the water's resistance is completely against them, they're flying. 

It takes every ounce of Arthur's energy, till his lungs go small and his biceps take fire, but they catch up with the Dutch. They're two hundred meters off the finish line when they come clear of them. There's nothing but victory before them; nothing but a straight path. But the wind rises and the waters get choppier. Instead of getting forward momentum, the wind pushes them sideways, right into the path of the Dutch. 

“Careful,” Merlin shouts, and they go at it, lifting the sculls at another angle, forcing their shell in their lane. But the effort slows them down. The finish line is there. Arthur can feel it in his heart and in his body. It's so close, but they're second again. There's no way they're going to win now, not unless...“Double time, Merlin. Double time.” 

They shave their deficit and they're so close. But they need something more. Between one grunt and the next Merlin says, “Harder.”

A powerful kick down the stretch propels them to first again. But the Dutch won't quit. They're so close, they'll win if Merlin and Arthur slow down even for a fraction of a second. They've come this far: they can't allow that to happen. This time they don't even give each other instructions; neither of them calls the shots. They instinctively fall into a blistering pace, one that makes their thighs burn and their hearts more so. It's second nature to them, an instinct that comes from their innermost being. The front of their boat clearing the bow of the other, they increase their lead. They're past the final mark and so close to the end of their efforts. With a last sinew-stretching push, they make it to the finish line.

Arthur closes his eyes and when he re-opens them it's to see that they've won, him and Merlin, they've got the gold.

*****  
Music sounds. It's jaunty, peppy. They're on the podium's tallest step, cameras pointed at them, waiting to be awarded their medal. 

Merlin lowers his head and nudges him bodily. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur's still running high on adrenaline, so he just frowns. “What for?”

“For winning me this,” Merlin says, shuffling his weight, looking him in the eye, before gazing away. “For everything.”

“We won together.” They're a duo, a partnership. If one of them had given up, they wouldn't be here now. “You don't have to thank me.”

Merlin spears him with a sweet glance, one of those looks of his that could melt stones, iron, the hardest man-made particle. “I do. I... You don't know how I...”

The other crews get handed their Rio logos. That stops Merlin in his tracks. When they get their figurines, Merlin toys with his, and sotto voce he says, “You don't know how much this means to me, how much our partnership matters.”

Arthur's heart travels through his throat and he can't wait, not when Merlin's looking at him the way he is now, as if Arthur's hung the moon and stars, made all his dreams come true. It must be the adrenaline talking, or perhaps he's gone crazy. He still can't stop himself, not when he's so firmly on cloud nine, not when he feels affection coming off Merlin in waves. “It matters to me too,” he says, even when he realises that the camera is panning on him. The audio is not on, so they can't hear what he's saying. Even so he should probably stop talking. Except he has no intention of doing that. Not now that he's rolling. He's had this bottled up inside for so long and the urge to open up has never been so strong before. He wants to dare, like he did on the water. “In fact, that's just a euphemism I used.”

Merlin's nose wrinkles. “Huh?”

The Olympics Committee dignitary approaches the podium. He hands the Lithuanians their medals, shakes their hands.

Arthur understands how little time he has. He has to say this now, before his courage wanes and he falls back into his silent routine, biding his time for a moment that never comes. And if his heart breaks, well then, at least he'll have made a play for it. “It doesn't only matter. It's more. In fact, it means everything to me.”

Merlin's breath falters. “Does it?”

“Yes.” Arthur nods even while he tries to look stoic for the camera. “Because, to be quite honest, Merlin--” He turns around so they're facing each other. “--I think you complete me.”

“Arthur, I--”

“No, please, let me speak.” Before Arthur has no more time, which is going to be quite soon, given that the Dutch are already getting their silver medals. “I'm not talking about the boat. I mean, I would never want another partner, but that's not it.” If Merlin didn't want to compete with him, Arthur could live with it. There'd be little joy left in the sport, the magic would not be the same ever again, but he could make do. “You complete me as a person. You make me a better man.” Once again Merlin tries to speak, but Arthur silences him with a raised eyebrow. “And you make quite a good friend. A formidable one. A steadfast one.” Merlin's faith in him, in them, has seen him through many a bout of low self-esteem. “I admire all of those qualities of yours and in truth I'm selling it more than a little short, because I think I'm a bit in love with you and whatever you say now...” Arthur doesn't think he's breathed in quite a while now. “...that's not going to change. My heart is not going to change.”

“Neither is mine,” Merlin says, smiling such a brilliant smile it lights up the day.

Forget about breathing. Arthur's never going to need oxygen ever again. “You mean that...”

“That my poor heart is on the same page as yours.” Merlin faces away from Arthur. “Has been for quite a while.”

Arthur's about to ask for clarification – this is very important damn it, and you need to cross the Ts in matters such as these – when the dignitary moves on to them and hands them their medals. Arthur is sucker-punched into looking at his. It's got the Rio 2016 logo and name, surrounded by a laurel design in the form of a wreath. On the outside edge it says, rowing, men, double sculls. Arthur's brain short-circuits, trying to process both the victory and Merlin, and the surge of cautious happiness that sweetens his blood and colours the world in wonderful hues.

“You've won yourself two very important victories today,” the dignitary says, shaking his hand. “Enjoy them, young man, enjoy them.”

Before Arthur has sussed his meaning out, has determined whether the man had overheard what was said between him and Merlin, he's moved on to shake Merlin's hand. 

When Merlin has received his prize, he grins, pivots, grabs Arthur by the neck and kisses him quick and sweet on the lips.

And though Arthur's heart stops for want of more, he can put up with having to wait a little longer for it. For now he's just lived through the best day of his life.


End file.
